


A Job to Do

by Anonymous



Category: Dishonored (Video Games)
Genre: Parenthood, Pregnancy, Trans Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-15
Updated: 2018-08-15
Packaged: 2019-06-28 00:28:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,979
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15696471
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Corvo owes his loyalty to the empress, whether that means carrying Jessamine's child or protecting Emily from those who would overthrow her.It isn't always easy. He does it anyway.





	A Job to Do

When the witch pulled the mark from his hand he felt… weak, in a way he hadn’t felt for a quarter of a century.

Whatever it was she’d wrapped around him fell back and he fell too. Someone—Emily—caught him before he hit the ground.

He looked up at her. For a moment he couldn’t do anything else. She looked back at him and there was fear in her eyes. Fear, and something more… something that filled him with relief. Defiance.

After all these years, all the preparations he’d made, she was ready. If he died here on the throne room floor, she might grieve, but she would be ready to reclaim her title. He’d done his job and done it well.

Behind them someone approached. Guards. Emily’s guards, or the duke’s? It didn’t matter. He hauled himself upright, shaking but ready for a fight. Emily stood as well and turned to face those approaching from behind.

For a moment the world seemed to stand still. The witch met his gaze, and he could see that she knew he would fight, blade or no blade, mark or no mark, to the death. A cold little smile crossed her face.

So be it.

Time rushed forward and with it the guards. There was no time to prepare. No way to attack. He couldn’t block, could barely dodge. Without Emily to watch his back he would have fallen almost as soon as the fight began.

The witch moved toward him, her movements abrupt, like blinking, and he braced himself for whatever magic she had prepared. But the trajectory of her attack changed. She angled narrowly past him.

Emily. She was going for Emily.

He caught her with his shoulder. He didn’t have the strength to knock her down, but with his full weight he managed to push her off course. She turned her attack back to him and searing pain knocked him back to the floor.

Emily called him, but he couldn’t answer. He tried to stand. He couldn’t even sit up. He saw Emily moving toward the witch, the witch turning back to her, the black tendrils erupting from the ground again. Even as they rooted her in place Emily reached for the witch. She fought back. And in return the witch turned his daughter to stone.

He tried again to get up but the witch was on him, holding him down easily with one hand. She gave him a smirk.

“Ah, Corvo,” she said. “You’re still quite handsome, for a man of your age.”

She nods to someone he can’t see, and someone’s boot slams into his head.

 

* * *

 

There are rules in Dunwall, rules regarding the birth of an empress’ child. Rules that, like it or not, will not be broken for a pathetic Serkonan orphan.

As soon as the pregnancy is acknowledged it is owned by the kingdom. Corvo has barely enough time to register the symptoms and break the news to Jessamine before the pageantry begins.

First comes the announcements. Corvo is hurriedly introduced as the empress’ consort. There is predictable shock. A Serkonan? No family? Barely a step above a beggar raised? There is talk that the Empress is not the rightful parent—after all, a Serkonan will mate with anyone.

But there are forces that prevent the worst of the uproar. Despite his origins Corvo is well-regarded as having Emperor Euhorn’s favor, and no one dares share the outright traitorous thought that the Emperor misjudged a gift so badly.

More importantly, Jessamine is very public with her support. She stands beside him during announcements and talks about how excited she is to meet this new little life they’ve created together. Jessamine is well-loved. Perhaps out of pity—how surprised she will be when the baby looks like another unknown father, goes the common thought—her subjects go along with it.

Corvo knows perfectly well the baby is Jessamine’s. There is no one else. There has been no one else. He only worries that the child will look like him.

As the vessel carrying forth the next generation of Kaldwins (and Corvo knows he is little more) he is expected to remain visible for the duration. There is some interest in him, or at least in how a poor shopkeeper’s son from the southern isle came to be the consort of an empress, but mostly the public wants to watch as the pregnancy develops. This is their future as much as it is his.

One of the responsibilities is a luncheon with the ladies of Jessamine’s court. It is tradition. It is a rule.

It is awkward.

He has nothing in common with the women except pregnancy—two of them share his condition currently. Almost all of them were born into wealth. None of them give any indication of discomfort in their roles and the fancy dress required of them.

Jessamine has a lot of faith in him; some of it, perhaps, is misplaced. Although she has prepared him for this, giving him lists of topics he can bring up in conversation—the weather, each guest’s attendance at the Boyles’ ball, the status of everyone’s children—it all goes directly out of his mind. He reverts to type.

Oddly, it works. While the ladies are initially reserved and nervous around a man who is not one of their husbands, they seem thrilled to have found a man who will just sit and drink his tea and listen quietly and attentively to them.

It’s exhausting work despite everything. When the guests have departed he retreats to Jessamine’s chambers. His feet are swollen—just one of the symptoms he’s going to have to live with.

When Jessamine returns he is sitting up in bed, rubbing his sore, sore ankles. He’s been lying down, but right now the feeling of heartburn is just too much.

“Congratulations are in order,” Jessamine purred, climbing into the bed behind him. “The ladies love you.”

She puts an arm around his belly and he lays his own arm over hers. He barely shows at this point. That will change.

His fingers lace with hers. Her hands are warm.

“Doing alright, Corvo?” she asks softly.

He squeezes her hand.

“I appreciate you doing all of this.” She rubs her thumb along his. “I know it’s a lot, and you never asked for any of it.”

He would do anything for her. She must know this. But he wonders—does she think this is because of his title, or does she know it’s because he loves her?

On a daily basis he is paraded around in fitted clothes, specially designed to accentuate the spark of life growing inside him. His discomfort in being the center of attention is duly noted and dismissed.

In Dunwall—in all of Gristol, it seems—it is inevitably women who give birth, and, at least as far as the ruling class goes, they do it with a lot of pomp and circumstance and a roomful of attendants. But in Serkonos it is generally known how arbitrary gender is. Just because someone can give birth does not make them any particular gender. It is one of the few things he misses about the island that used to be his home. Here there’s no fluidity. Seeing him like this has changed the way people look at him. As far as they are concerned he is just a woman now. Any leniency shown to the empress’ complex identity is not extended to his.

He takes out his frustrations on a training mannequin down in a closed ballroom. For the safety of the fetus he has been forbidden live opponents. It’s better than nothing. They’ve tried to stop him from fighting at all, but no one dares take the sword from the hands of the royal protector.

After a few months, when he has begun to show more clearly, Jessamine comes back from meetings and speaks of an appointment for the morning. He assumes that the appointment is with the royal physician, the one who initially confirmed his pregnancy, but there is a veil of embarrassment over Jessamine’s face. Sheepishly she admits the appointment is with a cohort of doctors. As is expected of a consort with child, he will be examined by multiple doctors.

His stomach sinks. One doctor was difficult enough. He has always avoided any show of vulnerability, and this only makes the natural vulnerability of his situation worse. He tries not to show any disappointment, because it’s not his place, but he can’t help it. Why would she keep this from him?

For a while Jessamine pretends that nothing has changed. She comes to bed and puts her head against his shoulder, and he tries not to show his fear.

At last Jessamine admits the truth. She didn’t tell him about this tradition, the high-ranking doctors, precisely because she knew he would object. This way, she says, she’d thought that at least he wouldn’t worry. She is sorry. She knows this was a mistake.

Corvo kicks himself for not digging deeper into the precedents. It’s not like previous royal pregnancies went undocumented.

In the morning he does not eat with Jessamine. Instead he is escorted down to an examination room. The room is cold and the doctors have already arrived. They give him no privacy—he changes into the required gown in front of them and climb into the chair.

The doctors are not shy about their curiosity. They move his hips until they find the spot that works best and discuss amongst themselves what could make a _woman_ give up her _femininity_. There is no sign of the royal physician, which is some small comfort. Something about that man makes Corvo extremely uneasy.

He tells himself that he is doing a job, and he will do it well. He will do it for Jessamine. It doesn’t matter what anyone else says.

Hands and then tools touch him. No one has said anything to him, so he withdraws into himself. The little spark of life is waiting for him. For the first time, he actually feels alone with the life he’s helped to create.

Barely aware of the doctors, he does what they expect yet gives his attention to the spark of life. It reminds him of one singular summer back on Serkonos. It’s like holding a firefly in his hands, looking down in wonder at something incredible that he can never hope to understand.

At some point the maid who helped escort him shakes him gently. He and the unborn child have both been pronounced healthy. One of the doctors, preparing to leave, comments on an old knife wound on Corvo’s thigh. Another makes a lewd comment claiming an ability to convince Corvo to give up his pretense of masculinity. His compatriots hush him quickly. It seems that at least some of them have remembered that their patient is a former soldier whose job it is to kill at a moment’s notice.

He tries not to feel vindicated. He fails.

When they finally allow him to hobble toward the rest of the day, the maid tells him that the Empress will be lunching with an admiral today, and there is no need for him to accompany her. He has been granted the day off.

Corvo wonders if this is a gift for going through with the exam, or a punishment for his selfish objections.

The baby is due on the eighth day of the month of rain, and the closer that day draws the more uncomfortable he feels. Part of this is the natural progression of the pregnancy. His entire body is swollen, lying on his back makes the constant heartburn unbearable, and he tires much more easily. Most of the problem, though, is the constant supervision.

A large part of his job is becoming effectively invisible. If no one is paying him any mind, he is better able to assess situations. But this new title, “consort of the empress,” brings overwhelming attention down on him. He can’t keep this up.

So he comes to a decision. Early one morning, lying in Jessamine’s bed with his arms around her, he decides he must go back. He may be the father of Jessamine’s child. He may help raise the child. But he cannot remain the empress’ consort.

Just coming to the decision sends a flood of relief cascading through him. Still sleeping, Jessamine sighs and settles deeper into his arms. He kisses the top of her head and lets himself relax.

The other part, the more difficult part, he attempts in the morning.

For once Jessamine accompanies him to meet with the royal physician. He is glad, since the physician probably won’t be as cutting and hateful as he would were Corvo alone.

He informs them that he will continue to carry out the responsibilities of a consort until the child is born. But he will give birth on his own. That is how it is done on Serkonos. That is how his mother did it, and her mother before her, and at this point perhaps it is what his sister did as well.

The doctor does not take this well.

“You fool,” he roars. “What would you know about delivering anything! You damn Serkonans, no better than animals.”

Jessamine too is upset, but she restrains herself. “I can tell this is what you want, Corvo. But what if something goes wrong?”

The doctor is still carrying on about rules and tradition.

If there is anything endangering the child, he will allow a doctor or a midwife to help. But there can’t be a crowd for this.

She looks up at him and as he looks into her eyes he realizes just how much trust he is asking for, from her but also from himself. He’s never given birth before. What if he misses some sign of danger? He and the child could both die.

Jessamine looks at him and she gives a little smile.

“Okay, Corvo,” she says. “I know you can do this.”

It is the twenty-fifth day of the month of nets. It is the he turns twenty-nine.

Three days later he goes into labor.

To be sure he will be left alone Corvo locks himself in Jessamine’s chambers. After a few hours the royal physician shows up, yelling about those heathen Serkonan traditions, but Corvo trusts that Jessamine will not unlock the door for him.

During the early hours he walks slowly from room to room, pausing to lean against walls or furniture whenever a contraction hits. He is restless, not unlike an animal after all. He runs a hot bath and gets in to soak. Not what they would have him do in Serkonos, but the water feels good against his sore body.

The hours pass. The labor grows worse.

True to its name, the monthor rain begins with a dark sky, a roll of thunder, and the rain falling outside the window. The worry is beginning to grow unmanageable.

He opens the window overlooking the harbor and rests leaned up against the windowsill, panting in the salty air.

Downstairs he hears a key in the lock and shouts for them to go away. There is nothing wrong. This is all he can expect. 

No one enters the empress’ chambers.

He dozes on and off for most of the day. He rests on Jessamine’s bed, and it’s making a terrible mess of it. If he could he would move to the floor, make it easier to clean up, but he can barely move. He is so tired already. He’s pushing, he’s crouched on the bed and groaning because it hurts, it does, but he’s got to get through it…

And, a few minutes past midnight, six days early, a little girl is born.

He tries to get her cleaned up but he’s shaking, and soon he’s reduced to just rubbing at her with a blanket as he struggles to pass the afterbirth. He can’t even cut the cord.

But the baby—his daughter—cries.

He wants to put the child against his chest but he’s afraid to lift her. He lies there beside her and the contractions hold him back.

A key turns in the lock. Feet on the stairs. His daughter still crying. The footsteps cross the floor to him.

“Oh, Corvo,” Jessamine breathes. “She’s beautiful.”

She is. Even like this she looks just like her mother.

He gives one last desperate push and passes the afterbirth. It takes the last of his strength, and he falls back against the bed.

More footsteps, a doctor, a midwife. He’s too weak to protest as they begin cleaning his daughter up.

Jessamine’s lips press against his forehead. “You are so incredible.”

The doctor turns away from the baby and begins to clean him up as well, but he watches the midwife with the baby. He can see no fear in any of their expressions. Jessamine sits beside him and squeezes his hand in hers.

He has done his job, and done it well.

He rests his head in Jessamine’s lap and she takes their daughter in her arms. Outside the window the rain patters, and a whaling ship’s fog horn calls out into the night. He can barely move, but he feels overwhelming relief. He loves Jessamine. He loves their daughter.

For the first time he fully relaxes into Jessamine’s body and sleeps like the dead.

 

* * *

 

It hurt.

Everything hurt.

His eyes moved slowly over his surroundings. Dust on the hardwood. A scrap of paper lost beneath a cabinet. Above him, sunlight.

He lay on his back on the floor of the empress’ study and tried to remember. Everything was a haze.

The throne room.

Ramsey.

The witch.

Emily.

Emily.

Blood pounded through his head as he struggled to sit up. His face throbbed. The residue of some kind of magic crackled through him and was gone.

His sword was gone. The ring Jessamine had given him was gone. Beneath the wraps on his arm, so was the mark of the Outsider.

No more magic. No more games.

On shaking limbs he dragged himself across to the door. Locked. Of course. He had no way to pick the lock. He’d need a key. On the other side he could hear voices, bickering amicably, not far away. Through the keyhole he could just make out someone in a guard’s uniform leaning against the stairwell bannister. Something was said about Ramsey. He couldn’t tell what.

Traitors.

He dragged himself back to where he’d started. The window was his best chance of escape (after Burrows’ betrayal, after the rat plague, after he and Emily returned to the Tower, he spent a lot of time planning escape routes from every room). The window still opened silently, looking out over the harbor and the ships on the river. For a moment he rested against the windowsill and breathed in the salty air. There was something calming about it, like a rough voice singing in the Estate District canals.

He heaved himself up onto the windowsill and crawled out into the sunshine.

It was a long way down. At one point he could have made it easily with a series of blinks criss-crossing down to the ground. Now that stood as out of the question. He slowly edged along the outcropping of building to the nearest window. It was a long way down, and his balance was no longer a sure thing.

The window here, as well, opened quietly. He slipped in as quietly as he could and crouched beside the empress’ bed, nausea coming over him in waves. When he put a hand to his head it came away bloody.

There were corpses scattered. A maid. Two guards. He rested his throbbing head against Emily’s bed. Mayhew as well. Captain Mayhew lay against the wall where they had left her.

Under the pain and fear he could feel the anger welling. So many good people were dead. And for what?

But there was movement from Mayhew. Her head turned the smallest bit, fell back, turned again.

He crawled to her—maybe he could help, they could help each other—but though she raised her head to look at him he could see the blood, the wound where Ramsey had run her through.

Just like Jessamine, all those years ago.

“Emily?” Mayhew asked. He held her by the shoulders and she looked up at him with desperation in her eyes.

“She’s… They’ve got her locked up.”

Mayhew relaxed a little in his arms. “She’s alive.”

Was she? “Yes.”

One of Mayhew’s hands scratched along the floor. She lifted up his sword—Ramsey must have left it behind—and put it into his hands.

“There was a captain at the docks,” Mayhew said. Her voice was so low he could barely hear her. “This morning. Looking for you. Find her. Get out of the tower.”

He nodded. Someplace to regroup. The water was always safer.

She looked up at him, like she was waiting for his acknowledgement.

“I will get her back,” he told her.

She didn’t respond. He shook her gently, and her head fell forward against him. She was already gone.

“I’m sorry, captain,” he said to her. What else could he say? He took the sword from her and leaned her back against the wall. If he did get out there was no telling what would be done with her body. But there was nothing he could do.

The room swam before him. Not tears. A cracked skull, more likely. He could barely move in a straight line. Tried to think what he should take, if anything.

Something to staunch the bleeding.

With everything he had in him he dragged himself from the open floor across to where Emily’s bathroom door stood open. A towel. He managed to focus on the cupboard nearest the door. A towel would work. He moved as quietly as he could across the tile floor. Flicked the door open. Towels. Yes. White, but nothing to be done about that. With a shaking hand he tugged one of the towels from the pile. The towel or his hand or both struck a jar of whale oil tucked into the cupboard and sent it rolling.

He could hear it shatter already, hear the guards coming to investigate. He grabbed at it blindly and barely caught it before it struck the floor.

For a moment the world seemed to stand still again. If the guards came he wasn’t sure he could hold out. He stayed low and listened.

Nothing.

He sank down onto the cool tile, against the voice of reason that told him not to lay down, don’t, if he lay down he might not ever get up again. He put his head against the towel. As long as he didn’t sleep…

If anything happened to Emily he would avenge her.

He stared blankly across the floor. If there was no way to save Emily, he would kill every person directly and indirectly responsible for this. He would make every last one of them pay, and then he would kill himself.

What would happen to Dunwall? He couldn’t bring himself to care. His loyalty was with the empress. It was with Jessamine, and when she was gone it was with Emily.

But there was no way to know now what the outcome would be. He would have to operate on the hope that she could still be saved. He had a job to do. He would do it. He would do it as well as he could. He would do it for Emily.

Out in the harbor a boat and her crew waited. Down in the throne room Emily waited. And Corvo, without being aware of it, lost consciousness on the floor of his daughter’s chambers.


End file.
